


Based Upon That Evidence

by pt_tucker



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Incest, John's POV, M/M, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 08:07:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4052707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pt_tucker/pseuds/pt_tucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds out about the unusual relationship between the Holmes brothers. He doesn't take it well, as Mycroft's nose can attest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now beta'd by the wonderful Anarfea! Thanks so much!  
>   
> 

“... Based upon that evidence, I look 13.7% more like a horse than I do an otter. Not as flattering, but honesty is ... something best....” Sherlock scrunched up his nose in concentration.

“The best policy?” John asked. 

He watched Sherlock point at him through the little screen on his phone. Sherlock looked utterly ridiculous with his hair a wild mess and his blue-grey eyes jumping from item to item in the hospital room with apparent fascination. His gaze only paused long enough to occasionally stare at things with an intensity that was somehow even stronger than when he _wasn’t_ recovering from being horrifically stabbed. Before they’d somehow ended up on the topic of horses and otters, Sherlock had been eyeing the IV stand attached to his arm as if it might start speaking to him at any moment. With the medication Sherlock was currently on, John wasn’t entirely certain it hadn’t already.

“Exactly! Very good, John. John. John. John. That’s an odd name, isn’t it? Jaaaaawn.” Sherlock turned a serious face towards him, “Do you think I look like an otter?”

“Ah….” 

Sherlock waved at him. “Nevermind. You’re stupid. Everyone’s stupid. Am I stupid?” Sherlock paused to think about that, before finally muttering, “Logic.” 

“Yep,” John said to himself, “Greg is going to love this.”

“John, you look like a hedgehog,” Sherlock said, jumping right into a new topic. Or was it back to the previous?

“What?” John allowed his hand to drop so that he could look at Sherlock properly for the first time in over twenty minutes. 

Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Shaking his head, John raised his phone and continued filming. 

“Sonic. Sonic. Sonic. Sonic. Sonic. Sooooooniiiic,” Sherlock sang to himself, voice rising and lowering in a tune that wasn’t completely horrible for being the same word over and over. Of course, with that voice he could probably make a reading of the dictionary come across as a fascinating tale. “Sonic? Why Sonic?” Sherlock asked as he examined his hands. In his current state, it was entirely possible Sherlock might actually see the answer written on his palms. 

If John was lucky, he might also see that chasing after armed men with military experience without John by his side led to him bleeding out all over the sidewalk outside an ice cream shop filled with screaming children, and that Sherlock really should stop doing things like that.

“The hedgehog?” John supplied helpfully, breaking into Sherlock’s private conversation with himself.

Sherlock’s lips curled in distaste. “Should have deleted that.” Sherlock threw his fist into the air. “I will delete that!” 

He gave John a startled look as if _he_ was the one who’d shouted.

John shrugged, feigning ignorance.

Soft humming started as Sherlock pressed his hands to the sides of his head. John leaned forward and took hold of a bony wrist, phone momentarily forgotten.

“Sherlock.”

Wide eyes turned towards him.

“Why don’t we wait until you’re not completely off your rocker to mess around with your brain?” 

Honestly, John wasn’t certain he entirely believed the whole “deletion process” thing, certainly not at face value, but he’d rather not chance it.

Sherlock ignored him in favor of glossing the tips of his fingers over John’s hand. 

John watched as fingertips trailed up over his jumper to circle his elbow and then travelled back down again. 

“Nice. Nice.” Sherlock flipped his hand over and swirled his finger across John’s palm, forcing John to swallow uncomfortably at the unusual intimacy. “Not as nice as Mycroft’s.”

John’s brows drew together. He supposed Mycroft did have nice hands. Nice enough for a bloke, anyway. It was a bit of an odd thing for Sherlock to say, but so was half the crap that came out of the his mouth.

“Makes me feel good with his hands.”

It took John a moment to process that. And then the world broke.

Pulling himself from Sherlock’s grasp, John forced Sherlock to look at him, not that it did much good with his overblown pupils and unfocused gaze. 

“Sherlock, what do you mean by that?”

“Iceman. Warm hands.” Sherlock giggled.

John frowned. “How does Mycroft make you feel good?”

“You’re angry. Why?” 

Sherlock drew away from him, and John’s heart clenched at the idea that Sherlock might think it was his fault. 

“I’m not angry at you. I just want to know what Mycroft does with his hands that makes you feel good.”

“Angry at Mycroft,” Sherlock said, nodding at himself. “Doesn’t go away when he’s told. ‘I’m the smart one.’” Sherlock made a face. “Stupid Fatcroft.” Sherlock peered out the window. “Nosy. Always watching.”

John closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. None of that meant anything. That was just Mycroft being Mycroft. Sherlock wasn’t implying… Surely he would have _told_ John if he didn't feel safe… If he was being…

Opening his eyes, John said, “Sherlock please answer the question. What does Mycroft do with his hands?”

Not taking his eyes off whatever had caught his attention outside, Sherlock slid his hand down beneath the sheets bunched up around his waist.

John stormed across the room, startling a little noise out of Sherlock. He marched through the slammed-open door with a barely contained fury.

Away. He needed to get away before he did something he regretted. Sherlock, for all his intelligence, had the emotional knowledge of a rock, and John didn’t want to risk making him feel guilty. 

As luck would have it, the man in question came into view just as John rounded a corner. He smiled at John. That smug, superior smile that told everyone in explicit detail how very powerless you were in comparison to him. How he could make you disappear to Antarctica, or wherever the hell he sent people, and no one would ever even question the decision, let alone try to fight it. How he could twist and bend someone as brilliant as Sherlock Holmes until the man no longer recognized that what Mycroft had done to him – was _doing_ to him – was wrong. So wrong.

“Hello, John. I see my brother has gotten himself into a bit of trouble. Again.” Mycroft glanced in the direction of Sherlock’s hospital room in clear distaste.

John’s fist was swinging before he even had the chance to consciously order it to move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what'd you think? Concrit welcome!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another chapter for you guys! Once again beta'd by the wonderful Anarfea!  
>   
> 

The handcuffs were cutting into his wrists.

It was a silly thing to be thinking about in his current situation, John knew. He should probably be more concerned that he was tied to a chair in the middle of an abandoned warehouse with only Mycroft and “Anthea” around to act as witnesses to anything unfortunate that might befall him. Unfortunately, the sight of Mycroft leaning against the infamous black car examining his swollen nose in his phone’s camera was just too much for him to be able to take the situation as anything more than a mild annoyance. John didn’t bother to hide his feral grin. It was too bad the man had managed to move just enough to avoid breaking anything.

Catching sight of John out of the corner of his eye, Mycroft gave up the pretense of ignoring him and instead slid the phone back into his pocket so he could grace him with his full penetrating gaze. John itched to chin him again for the ridiculous power display.

“I’m glad I can entertain you, Dr. Watson.”

Oh, so he was _Dr. Watson_ now, was he?

“Perhaps you’ll show me the same courtesy by telling me a story. I’m certain it will be _enthralling.”_ Mycroft’s smile promised a terrible fate if otherwise.

John wondered how often that same look had been turned on his own brother. Or had he not even needed to threaten? It wasn’t as if Sherlock understood the basics of human social interaction even as an adult. It wouldn’t have taken much for a boy seven years his senior to convince him of the _proper_ way to play “pirates.”

John wondered if he could trick Mycroft into coming closer so he could head-butt him.

Something about John must have registered with Mycroft. His voice came out softer when he asked, “Why, John?”

John chuckled. The bastard sounded genuinely confused, but he’d been around Sherlock far too long to fall for Holmesian acting tricks.

“Are you sure you want your assistant here for this? Not every day someone finds out their boss is a fucking child molester!” John thought they might have heard him on the other side of the district by the end. Good.

Mycroft jerked back, and John thought for one glorious moment he might actually trip over backwards and fall on his arse. He was sadly disappointed when Mycroft recovered. At least Anthea had finally lowered her phone. Enough, at least, to stare at John with wide eyes before shifting her gaze to Mycroft.

“I’m not certain where you received your information-”

“From Sherlock!” John snarled.

Mycroft stared at him in what could only be described as absolute shock. Anthea, for her part, just blinked.

“He called me a child molester?”

John had to strain to hear the question, despite the otherwise complete silence in the warehouse.

“Not in so many words. He said you had ‘nice hands.’”

Mycroft actually had the audacity to look relieved. And then embarrassed. The slight blush that tinged his cheeks was so out of place on a man like Mycroft Holmes that John couldn’t help but lose some of his rage to incredulity.

“You misunderstand…” Mycroft trailed off.

A pointed look was sent Anthea’s way and the woman suddenly had some urgent reason to get into the car. And stay there. Mycroft swallowed before continuing.

“Sherlock was twenty-seven when we first changed the nature of our relationship. And before you ask, that wasn’t how long it took me to ‘brainwash’ him. Everything has always been completely consensual on his end.”

John snorted.

“Ignoring that you’re seven years older for a moment, we still have the fact that you control everything from his finances to his friends. Or, at least you try to.”

Mycroft’s lips thinned into a tight line before he blanked his face to a more neutral expression.

“The fact that I’m, shall we say, ‘failing’ in that endeavor should be evidence enough that I don’t overly influence my brother’s decisions.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe he’s just better than you.” Better at what, John couldn’t say. Stubbornness, perhaps.

“You think too little of my abilities.”

“What I _think_ is that you could ruin Sherlock’s life with the snap of your fingers. I think you could take away his monthly allowance, his official backing with all of the agencies he uses, his unseen protector that keeps him from getting an ASBO every other week. Pressure his unofficial connections into abandoning him. Ruin his reputation. Hell, just save yourself the trouble and outright disappear him and anyone who ever knew him.”

“I would never do that,” Mycroft snapped.

John watched as his hand tightened around his umbrella handle, and he was forced to consider the idea that the ever-controlled British Government might actually hit him with it.

He paused to study the man before him. One didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to see that he was upset. Surely he didn’t believe himself innocent of John’s accusations? As if he didn’t realize that everything about the situation was _wrong_. Mycroft wasn’t nearly that naïve.

Still, perhaps it would have been wise not to punch the man the moment he’d seen him.

John pushed on. It was too late to go back and someone needed to say this, whether or not Mycroft wanted to hear it. For Sherlock’s sake.

“But you could. And Sherlock knows you could. So when his brother comes around asking him if he wants to have a little incestuous shag, what the hell is he supposed to say?”

Mycroft’s back stiffened but he otherwise gave no response. John wondered if that meant he’d won. Or if Mycroft had decided he wasn’t going to convince him so he might as well ignore him in favor of thinking of the best place to hide the body.

“I see I’m not going to convince you,” Mycroft said.

Ah, well, the first option had always been a long-shot anyway. John just hoped he got the decency of a heroic end. He didn’t want Mycroft going around telling people he’d fallen into a pool while texting and drowned.

“What are you going to tell Sherlock? Because you know he won’t accept whatever bullshit excuse you throw at him.” And then because he might as well go for gold, he added, “Killing his one and only friend. Mmm.” John mock winced. “Might make getting into his trousers a bit difficult. Being a completely consensual relationship and all.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and let out a little sigh. John would have given his left leg to be able to punch him again right that moment. He didn’t get to pretend to be the exasperated big brother - the _normal_ one who had to deal with all the childishness around him. Not anymore.

“While the image my brother has built up around me is somewhat amusing, it _is_ an image. I don’t kill people. Nor do I have them killed. Though for you I might make an exception.” Mycroft smiled at him sarcastically.

“Yes, well, I’m afraid I find that a bit hard to believe. Considering you can’t exactly let me go.” John indicated his current predicament with a sweep of his eyes.

“Why is that? Because you’ll tattle on me? You have no proof of any wrongdoing and even if you did we both know it would become…” Mycroft made a show of looking for the right word “unfortunately lost. If you ignore the wheels of justice and instead take your information directly to the papers, you’ll find that the sharks that call themselves journalists these days have been waiting to see Sherlock shed blood for some time now. I doubt they even know he has a brother. And if you physically attack me, your dear sister will soon discover what the climate is like in a rather unpleasant part of the world.”

John’s nails were biting into his palms by the time he finished. He’d probably have marks when he was finally given the chance to look.

Mycroft’s cold demeanor melted away as he looked at him. Just a little.

“I am not a villain, Dr. Watson. Talk to Sherlock.”

With that, he turned on his heel and sauntered back to the car. It pulled away not a minute later. And then not five minutes after that, once John’s wrists were bleeding from him trying to wriggle out of the cuffs, a police car came into view.

Lestrade got out of the driver’s side once it came to a stop.

“John? Is that you?” he asked, flashing a torch in his face. John flinched away from the light.

“Yes.”

He’d have to thank Lestrade for blinding him after he was done thanking him for not leaving him to be attacked by the packs of hooligans that probably roamed this area at night.

John refused to think about the fact that Mycroft had probably chosen Lestrade specifically because he knew John could trust him to not secretly be taking him away to be murdered. John was _not_ going to be thanking Sherlock’s attacker for the consideration.

“What the hell happened to you?”

Blinking spots out of his eyes, he looked at Lestrade. He’d obviously come here on Mycroft’s orders. But still, he cared for Sherlock. And John knew him well enough to consider him one of his friends, one of _their_ friends, even if the emotionally stunted human being known as Sherlock Holmes didn’t know the meaning of that word. He’d help him put an end to Mycroft, for whatever his help might be worth.

John thought of his sister, whom he wasn’t exactly on good terms with but whom he loved anyway.

“Nothing,” John said. And then, because if there was one thing living with Sherlock taught a man it was how to lie better, he added, “Mycroft decided to test out my escape skills. You know, because of what happened the other day.”

Nothing had happened the other day. That was another great lesson from a man who knew a lot of psychology for someone who didn’t know much about actual human beings: people didn’t like to let on they weren’t in the know.

Lestrade nodded like he had any idea of what John was talking about.

“And, what? He got a call in the middle of practice and decided to leave you here?”

“He doesn’t like failure,” John answered.

“Holmeses,” Lestrade said, shaking his head as he came forward to uncuff him.

“What the bloody hell happened to your wrists?”

“Sherlock told me lubricant helps. Thought I’d try it,” John answered, though that wasn’t actually something he’d learned from Sherlock. He didn’t much feel up to having a drawn-out discussion about all of the times he’d been kidnapped by psychopaths.

“Do me a favor, mate. Next time Sherlock tells you something, just ignore it.”

John smiled bitterly. If only it were that simple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What'd you think? LMK, thanks!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Attention! Story is now beta'd by the wonderful Anarfea! Chapters 1 & 2 have been fixed up, though the overall story hasn't changed.  
>   
> 

The video played on the tiny screen in John’s palm and, though the sound was muted, he could hear every word. Goodness knows he’d certainly listened to it enough to have it memorized. 

“John?” Sherlock mumbled, sounding groggy but cognizant. 

“Well look who finally decided to wake up,” John said, leaning forward. Sherlock's pupils were still a tad dilated but nothing like black holes they'd been when he'd told him about Mycroft.

The smile he gave Sherlock was a fake, and not a very good one at that, but John had never been able to act like Sherlock could. 

“You haven’t slept.”

John didn’t bother to deny it. He'd been sleeping fitfully in the hospital chair for the past few days, having refused to leave Sherlock's side. Mycroft had understood the unspoken warning and smartly stayed away. Instead of answering, he turned his attention to the evidence in his palm that he’d never be able to use. He pressed the close button.

“Well, you were stabbed,” John replied.

“Not fatally,” Sherlock answered. He narrowed his eyes in what John assumed was supposed to be intimidation. He couldn’t quite pull it off with the sickly pale skin and slightly unfocused gaze.

“Yes.” John waved an arm at him. “You are still here, after all.”

“Mmm.”

Sherlock’s eyelids drifted down, and slow, even breaths made their way in and out of his slightly parted lips. Well then, that conversation hadn’t lasted long. 

John almost jumped when they flew back open.

"Phone."

John hesitated at the outstretched hand before deciding to get up and retrieve Sherlock's mobile. He resolutely ignored the questioning look sent his way. Best not to give Sherlock access to the recording.

Sherlock began texting immediately once the mobile hit his hand. "You filmed me and now don't want me to view the video. Must have been quite the show," he said, not looking up.

"You did mention something about how I looked like a hedgehog."

"Hmm. Yes."

"What do you mean-"

"Why did you fight with my brother?"

John froze, though he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. Nothing about Sherlock should be surprising anymore. "What?"

"Nevermind. Mycroft is refusing to answer. He always answers when I’m in hospital. Add that to the fact you’re looking at me like I’m a victim of some heinous crime, and I can only conclude you’ve become aware of the nature of my relationship with my brother.” Sherlock frowned. “The recording on your phone. You should delete it.”

John pressed a protective hand over the pocket that held his mobile. “It’s evidence.”

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. “I had hoped you would be able to understand, but clearly I’ve overestimated your intelligence.”

“Much older big brother is having sex with the younger brother, whose life he controls, for all intents and purposes. Doesn’t take a genius to think there’s something not quite right about that.”

“You believe Mycroft is controlling _me?”_ Sherlock looked amused.

“Not necessarily. It could be an unconscious decision on your part. You’re smart enough to realize that he can make your life difficult-”

Sherlock sighed again and turned his attention towards the mobile in his hands. “Dull.”

“Sherlock, will you bloody well listen to me for once in your life!” 

John reached forwards to yank the phone out of his hands or maybe turn his face back towards him or – something. He wasn’t certain exactly. It didn’t matter anyway as he found himself paused with his arm outstretched, hand just on the outside of the invisible barrier that was Sherlock’s personal space. Nevermind that Sherlock never seemed to notice said space.

He flinched back at the ugly look Sherlock sent him. 

“I’m not going to cry if you touch me. I haven’t been traumatized by my brother’s actions. For goodness sakes John, I was the one who instigated the relationship!”

“You did,” John said. Was that how Mycroft had phrased it to a younger Sherlock? Twisted things around until it was suddenly his idea?

“You don’t believe me.”

“Of course I don’t believe you! Mr. ‘I’m married to my work.’ I’ve never so much as thought you might masturbate, let alone start an illicit relationship with your damn brother!”

“Can you shout any louder John!”

They both glanced towards the door. Blood sang in John’s ears and it was all he could do not to run out into the hall and shout the truth to everyone he met. See Mycroft try to cover that up.

When it appeared no one was coming to inquire about the Holmes’ incestuous love life, Sherlock continued, “I could hardly tell a man I’d just met that I was in a relationship that defied society’s definition of appropriate.” His voice told John everything he needed to know about Sherlock’s thoughts on society and its silly rules. “Your reaction now, after we’ve known each other for a number of years, is evidence enough of how well that would have gone.”

Though Sherlock didn’t say it, John could read between the lines and hear the rest of it. Sherlock had liked him, from the very beginning, and hadn’t wanted to lose him. Even now, he wouldn’t have told him his secret willingly for fear of John leaving. It was enough to simmer his anger to a more controllable level. He reminded himself that he wasn’t angry at _Sherlock._

“You began your relationship. Ok. How did that happen?” John tried to keep his voice soft, aware of the fact that Sherlock wasn’t used to questions like these. _Personal_ questions.

Sherlock shrugged. “I’d thought him perfect for years. A highly intelligent individual who was not only aware of my more eccentric behavior, but was himself not what society would consider ‘normal.’ At least not any more normal than he pretended to be for all of the simple-minded people constantly about.” He crinkled his nose in distaste. “He was someone that would be forced to put up with me whether we slept together or not, so we might as well enjoy the more carnal pleasures with one another. It was only logical that I pursue him.”

Logical. Sleeping with his brother had been _logical_. Bloody hell.

“And then you had sex.”

“Yes, John. We had sex. I can’t understand your obsession with it. It must be so boring to live a life full of the thoughts of body parts rubbing against each other.”

John winced at the mental image of Sherlock and Mycroft rubbing anything together. “He agreed to all of this right away, then?”

“Hardly. It took me several years to convince him that it was pointless to follow the conventions of people that hadn’t the intelligence to tell the difference between a dog groomer and an actress based upon their shoes, let alone understand the complexities of a relationship between two equals that just happened to have been born to the same family. You yourself are an example of the sort of dull creatures we have to put up with every day. Can you imagine either of us actually engaging in a relationship with one?”

John’s lips thinned into a tight line.

“No offense.”

John was starting to think Sherlock didn’t actually know what that phrase meant.

Sherlock pressed on. “Of course, one can’t discount the effect of my addiction-” Sherlock abruptly cut himself off, the expression on his face saying his brain had finally caught up to his mouth. He gave John an uncertain look. The one he gave him whenever he realized accidentally wandered into something a bit not good. 

“The effect of your addiction?”

“Relief over my continued existence, no doubt.”

And that was a lie if John had ever heard one. Not the words, they made sense enough, but the way Sherlock pointedly tried to appear as if he didn’t care. Considering he’d just gotten done trying to convince John fucking his brother was natural, his sudden disinterest in how that had come about was suspect at least.

“Right.”

They stared at each other for a moment, John for once the one trying to figure out Sherlock’s secrets.

“Yes, well, if you could please refrain from attacking the British Government, I would be most appreciative. Though I’ve no doubt Mycroft deserves a good chinning, it does make him unbearably moody, and I would like to have sex again sometime in the next century.”

“I won’t make any promises,” John said, making a face at the mention of sex.

He silently promised himself he’d deck Mycroft every chance he got.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, what do you guys think now that things are slowly becoming clearer?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, edited by the lovely Anarfea.  
>   
> 

The quiet hit John like a wave as he managed to finagle the groceries into one hand so that he could close the door. The sounds of the street weren't gone, but rather blessedly muted and nothing came from the flat itself. The latter was both relieving and terrifying.

"It would be nice if someone else lived here who could help me with the shopping!" he shouted up the stairs without actually expecting an answer. 

If Sherlock ever did help, he would be forced to assume it was some elaborate ploy to poison him. Or maybe convince _John_ to poison _him._ He tended to be an equal opportunity poisoner when he was playing mad scientist.

Grunting as he reached the top of the steps - what did Sherlock need two thousand packets of Splenda for again? - John almost dropped his bags at the realization Sherlock wasn't alone. Not that seeing Mycroft was that startling by itself. He’d run into the man a few times while Sherlock had remained in hospital. He assumed Sherlock had called his brother sometime after their conversation and given him the “all clear” to return. 

Mycroft had continued to visit Sherlock until they’d had a fight (about goldfish, of all things) and Sherlock had torn apart his brother’s life with vicious words while Mycroft just looked on with all the exasperation of an older sibling that was way past “done with your shit.”

No, the startling part was that this was the first time that the thought they might have been fucking had accompanied the sight of Sherlock's brother. The idea still made him a little queasy, though John had promised he’d try to see it from Sherlock’s point of view. Which, as far as he could tell, was just a little bit stranger than Mrs. Marchner’s, who lived up the street and thought all strange occurrences were caused by the sentient machines slowly taking revenge on unsuspecting humans.

"Dr. Watson," Mycroft said, glancing over. Only the slightest undertone to his voice indicated his unease. John was rather proud of his ability to read even that on a Holmes.

"Mycroft," John ground out. He may have accepted that Mycroft hadn’t out and out forced Sherlock, but that didn’t mean he didn’t still think it was his fault to some degree. The man supposedly helped run the world, Sherlock would have to go much further than “relief” to convince him that Mycroft couldn’t have resisted.

"Oh please," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "Do feel free to spend even a moment observing your surroundings. We haven't been fondling each other-"

"Sherlock!" Mycroft hissed. At least John wasn’t the only one that didn’t want to talk about anybody fondling anybody else.

_"Obviously,”_ Sherlock said, ignoring his brother. “Nor have we ever, before you ask. Mycroft refuses to do anything here." Sherlock sent Mycroft a dirty look.

"Unlike your flatmate, I know what you've done to the furniture. Forgive me for attempting to remain uncontaminated."

John eyed his chair.

"Besides, I assume that's not something John wants to see upon returning home. With the shopping," Mycroft continued.

John blinked down at the bags, just now remembering them. Mycroft sounded quite serious, so he figured he could leave them alone for a few minutes and not come back to any unpleasant surprises. 

“I’ll have some tea,” Sherlock called out to him. 

John paused in his task of putting the groceries away to scowl at the cupboards. Once done, he started pulling out the necessary supplies for tea only to have Sherlock add, “Mycroft would like a cup as well.” John let out a slow breath through his nostrils.

Setting a cup in front of Sherlock, he dared Mycroft to say anything about his own lack of tea. Mycroft wisely chose not to comment.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “And people say I’m childish.”

“You are childish,” Mycroft answered, quick as lightning. So, they weren’t quite over their little spat. Good.

John glanced between them as frigid silence descended, wondering if he should give them some alone time. Not that he wanted to give them some alone time, but he told himself he had to accept that Sherlock was not a child. If he swore that it was what he wanted, he couldn’t force his own views onto him. All he could do was glower at Mycroft and silently threaten him with tortures unimaginable if he ever found proof of wrongdoing.

“You hardly need to leave. We’re not about to start snogging in the living room,” Sherlock answered his unspoken question, rolling his eyes once more before picking up his violin, “In fact, Mycroft was almost out the door.”

“Sherlock, I wish you would reconsider. This case-” 

Sherlock started sawing away on his instrument, and the scene was so normal, it was surreal. John would have no idea that these two were anything more than annoyed younger and older brother. How in the world could they stand each other long enough to sleep together? Supposedly they did care about one another, but the idea of them doing anything even remotely brotherly, let alone romantic, was ridiculous. 

Unable to stop himself, he asked, “Do you?” Because despite _really_ not wanting to know, his curiosity wouldn’t let him stay ignorant.

Sherlock’s screeching stopped and they both turned to look at him.

“Snog?” John elaborated.

This time it was Mycroft’s turn to look away in exasperation. “Must we talk about this? You have made it abundantly clear you still believe me to be some sort of monster that lurks in the dark. I hardly think talking about the finer details of our relationship will help matters.”

“I think it might,” John challenged, leaning forward, his tea forgotten. “You’re in love, aren’t you? The Holmes version of love, anyway. Why don’t you tell me about it?”

“Contrary to what you might believe, I don’t have to prove anything to you, Dr. Watson.”

“Prove it to Sherlock then. Surely you can find one nice thing to say about a man you’ve been with for over twelve years.”

John watched as the Holmes brothers glanced at each other. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Very well. If you must know, I find that Sherlock has a wonderfully talented mouth. I particularly enjoy the fellatio.”

John’s jaw dropped and he could only stare mutely as Mycroft rose, the conversation apparently over. Giving him a challenging glare, Mycroft bent down to kiss Sherlock soundly on the lips before striding out of the room.

Turning his dumbfounded look to Sherlock, he was greeted with the sight of his flatmate unsuccessfully trying to hide an amused smile behind his violin. 

“I should have hit him harder,” John growled.

“Yes. If this is how he reacts to a bit of heated conversation, I can’t wait for what a physical confrontation might bring about. He hasn’t kissed me in this flat the entire time we’ve lived here. Far too paranoid of cameras not placed here by himself.”

The worst part about Sherlock’s response, John decided, was that it wasn’t even sarcasm. He looked about as giddy as he had last Valentine’s Day when he’d gotten a call about a serial killer sticking love notes in human organs. 

John scowled down into his tea, certain this was all somehow its fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LMK what you thought! Reviews are love. ❤ Constructive criticism welcome.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited as usual by the lovely Anarfea!  
>   
> 

Seventeen hours. 

It’d been seventeen hours since John had last seen Sherlock. That in itself was hardly cause for concern. Sherlock certainly enjoyed running off to do who knows what for hours on end. It was the fact that John hadn’t gotten so much as a text in the meantime that was starting to worry him. 

Sherlock was surely just being his usual annoying self, off pretending that the rest of the world didn’t exist. He was probably sitting in some café somewhere flipping through John’s worried messages like the obnoxious dickhead he was - no intention whatsoever of sending him even a smiley face in response so John could stop fretting about his body lying in a ditch somewhere.

The thought of Sherlock dead sent a wave of ice through his blood.

John unlocked the screen of his mobile. He stabbed viciously at the numbers while simultaneously hoping the other individual would and wouldn’t pick up. It was answered after several long rings. John could just imagine Mycroft sitting on the other side of the call staring at his mobile, waiting for John to leave him alone and then finally answering when it appeared he wouldn’t.

“Dr. Watson,” the voice came icily from the tiny speaker. To say John and Mycroft hadn’t been on the best terms in the past two and a half months would have been the understatement of the century.

“Sherlock’s missing,” John said curtly, cutting to the chase. 

There was a loud exhale on the other end of the line.

“Last known location?”

“Baker Street, roughly seventeen hours ago.”

John could hear someone moving about on the other end of the line followed by some distant typing. As much as he hated the man, he couldn’t fault his ability to get down to business. Minutes passed by in silence broken only by the sound of someone working at a computer on the other end of the line. He waited patiently, resisting the urge to shout into the speaker for Mycroft to hurry the hell up, knowing a few minutes wasn’t going to make any difference after so long.

Damn it, he should have called earlier. 

“I can follow him up to Bouverie Street. It looks as if he went into a building and never came out, though I wager it was a trick to fool the surveillance. I’ll send a team to be certain.”

“I thought you already had a team watching him?” John snapped. If Mycroft was going to be a pervert spying on his little brother, the least he could do was be good at it.

“You underestimate Sherlock’s ability to avoid notice. As well as his desire. It’s quite clear he doesn’t want to be found at this point in time. I assume there’s nothing you wish to tell me?”

‘Fuck off,’ summed up he wanted to say nicely, but he resisted the urge knowing that having Mycroft on his side at the moment would make things far easier in regards to finding Sherlock.

“We didn’t have a fight,” John replied instead. And they hadn’t – it’d actually been a fairly good day. Mrs. Hudson had been swimming about the room, dusting here and there, conversing to John about daytime telly while Sherlock looked on with a smile not dissimilar to the affectionate smiles one might give a favorite pet. John had even gotten him to eat something without having to threaten to hide the bullet casings he was examining.

“Yes, I see,” Mycroft said, sounding like he was only half paying attention to what John was saying. “You should have contacted me when Sherlock didn’t respond to your text about the toes.”

“I didn’t think-” John stopped abruptly. “Wait, how did you-? Did you just hack my phone?”

“I attempted to infiltrate Sherlock’s but he appears to have disabled it. Normally I would still be able to track his location even with it off … he must have completely removed the chip,” Mycroft murmured the last part as if he was more talking to himself than John. 

Though John hated making comparisons between the two brothers as of late, he couldn’t help but think of geniuses and audiences. 

“I have a theory,” Mycroft said, finally sounding as if a donut wouldn’t be just as good to talk at as John.

“Yes?” John asked when it became apparent that was all Mycroft was going to say on the matter.

“It will require me coming to Baker Street to confirm.”

Silence stretched between them. Not the comfortable silence he shared with Sherlock, but instead one that said there was a very good possibility one of them might be walking out of this with a bloody nose and a few missing teeth.

“All right.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Meaning he’d already been on his way when he’d asked. John ground his teeth and forced himself not to respond.

A knock came from the door fifteen minutes later on the dot. John couldn’t help but wonder if Mycroft hadn’t been standing outside with his watch, waiting for precisely the right time. Or maybe all Holmes _really_ did just have a ridiculous sense of time. 

“Mycroft,” John said, opening the door.

“Dr. Watson.”

Mycroft made no move to enter the flat and some dark part of John was pleased at the possibility that he might be too afraid that John might attack him if he did. Instead, Mycroft stood just inside the doorway, his eyes roaming the area, examining everything as if each individual item held the answers to the universe – before discarding said item when it became apparent the answers it held were not the ones Mycroft was seeking. It was unnerving how eerily similar he looked to Sherlock in that moment, and it was all John could do not to chin the bastard again. He was a man that had a striking resemblance to his _brother,_ whom he was _fucking._

Having apparently gotten what he needed, Mycroft nodded to himself and turned around to leave. 

“Is that it then?” John called down the stairs as Mycroft descended.

“Tell Sherlock I don’t have time for his games.”

John clenched his fists at the lack of information but refused to call out to the man again. He forced himself to go make a cup of tea, certain that if Sherlock was in danger Mycroft would take care of things.

He’d just barely sat down not ten minutes later when the subject of his search waltzed through the door.

“Where the bloody hell have you been? I’ve been trying to call you for hours!” John snapped. He tried hard not to think of himself as the nagging wife Lestrade often joked that he was. The attempt was futile.

Sherlock had on that look he got when he was trying to work out the silly intricacies of humanity. “If you’d contacted Mycroft sooner, I would have been home earlier.”

John pursed his lips and let out a rough exhale before he responded with, “You mean to tell me it was a bloody test?”

“Not exactly,” Sherlock said, shrugging off his coat, “A test implies a grading scale to decide upon the appropriateness of the results. I had no such scale. Which is probably for the best considering you would have failed spectacularly. Consider this more of a bonding exercise.” 

He smiled at his own cleverness before turning to focus on John. John watched as the curve of his lips dipped down until his mouth was as expressionless as the rest of his face. It was Sherlock’s mask, John knew. The one he wore when he realized he’d said something a bit not good and didn’t yet know which facial expression would be deemed appropriate in the situation.

“I’m not about to bond with your brother, Sherlock,” John said. He was careful to keep his mug from shaking as he tried to keep a grip on his emotions. It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault. It wasn’t _Sherlock’s_ fault. He repeated the mantra over and over to himself.

Sherlock sighed and threw himself down onto the sofa. He placed his hands under his chin in concentration, looking for all the world as if he was in for a long night of contemplation. So, of course, he almost immediately turned to John, probably just to spite John’s silent assumptions.

“What if you were to observe us in our natural environment?” Leave it to Sherlock to make it sound like some sort of nature documentary. “We could set up video cameras with audio and you could watch us interact.” Sherlock sat up and John could see the gleam starting to form in his eyes. The one he got just before he did things like jumping into the Thames.

“Even if I wanted to spy on you - which I don’t, for the record,” John said firmly, feeling he’d better make that point clear lest Sherlock suddenly shove videos of he and his brother in the shower together in front of his face next morning. “I doubt it’d be accurate anyway. Even if we could keep it from Mycroft, you’d know and that would skew the results.” Damn. Now _he_ was acting like it was some sort of experiment.

Sherlock threw himself back down, a pout on his face. John’s lips twitched before he could stop himself.

“While I consider Mycroft to be only slightly less annoying than Anderson on his best days, he does have a terrible habit of visiting the flat whenever he feels the need to engage in his bi-weekly exercise of walking up the stairs. I-” Sherlock turned his face towards the back of the sofa “-would prefer it if you two could get along. As you both so often point out when you’re angry, it’s not as if I have many other close acquaintances.”

John rubbed tiredly at his eyes.

“I’m trying. I really am. I’m just not comfortable with the situation.”

“Then logically I should be the one you are most angry with. As I’ve stated, I started the relationship. Everything was on my terms. If not for my addiction, I might never have gotten Mycroft to agree.”

“Yes, but-” John stopped to process that last sentence. Perhaps his years with the detective had made him (justifiably) paranoid, but he couldn’t help but feel there was something more to what Sherlock was saying.

“You got him to agree,” John said slowly, trying to work it out. 

“Obviously.”

“Wait, just one more time. You came to an agreement. There were terms. Due to your addiction.”

Sherlock looked very much like a cat who’d just been caught trying to knock the tea onto the floor. So there was something there.

“Sherlock. Tell me.”

“What is there to tell?” Sherlock asked, shrugging. “After a particularly bad high Mycroft was so relieved that I hadn’t managed to off myself he finally agreed to my terms.”

_Terms._ That word again. It could just be Sherlock being odd, John told himself. He hoped it was just Sherlock being odd.

_Everything has always been completely consensual on his end._

On _his_ end. John paled. He’d been such an idiot.

“Maybe I’ll just call Mycroft. See what his side of the story is,” John said, just to see how Sherlock would react.

The tiniest hint of tension spread along the line of Sherlock’s shoulders. 

“Oh my-” John threw his hands over his face. “You cannot be serious.”

Sherlock had the grace to look guilty. 

“I cannot believe you did that to your brother! Your _brother,_ Sherlock!”

“I didn’t rape him,” Sherlock snapped, actually sounding hurt at the idea.

“No! You only gave him the choice between letting his little brother continue on as a drug addict until he died or letting him have his body!” Sherlock clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white and John knew he’d guessed the terms correctly.

“You blackmailed him,” John whispered.

Sherlock didn’t deny it.

John jumped up from the chair, startling the detective but not caring. He ran a hand over his face and then continued it up through his hair. How had this conversation turned into him feeling sorry for _Mycroft?_

“John-”

“Not now!” John pointed a finger at him without looking. He’d lose his resolve if he allowed Sherlock to twist his thoughts with his oh-so-logical explanations. 

Is that what had happened with Mycroft? 

“I need some air.” No, what he needed was to talk to Sherlock’s damn brother and try to make sense of this mess. Bloody Holmeses.

“Are you coming back?” Sherlock asked and it was only the fact that John hadn’t ever heard his voice sound so small, not even when faking for unsuspecting informants, that had him turning back to look at him. 

He shouldn’t have. Sherlock looked stricken – like everything he’d ever wanted was suddenly being snatched from his fingers. It could be trick. He could act well enough to pull it off and if he was really the sort of man to blackmail his own brother into a relationship….

_I don’t have friends. I’ve just got one._

John sighed. “Yes, of course I’m coming back. I just need to think about this. You-” John looked at him. Really looked. “You do realize that what you did is more than a bit not good?” Far, far more. 

Sherlock’s fists clenched against his trousers. “I’m not a monster.” _I’m not a villain._ “I stated my case – the likely outcome of my death via overdose, and how he could help prevent such a situation from arising. It was an equal exchange for something we both desired. I didn’t hold him down and- This is why it had to be him! People like you don’t understand. You’re not smart enough to see what’s really happening!”

John closed his eyes and resisted the urge to punch a wall. 

“I care about you.” Sherlock swallowed. “As a friend. But I need someone like Mycroft if I am to have more. If I was give myself completely to someone, it had to be him.”

Sherlock gazed at him with such honest earnestness, John had no idea how to respond to it. So he didn’t. 

“I’m going to talk to Mycroft. Get his side of the story. I will come back, I promise.” He didn’t say that it might only be for him to pack his bags.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The big reveal! Finally! LMK what you thought!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter here! Beta'd by the lovely Anarfea, as you all know by now. :)  
>   
> 

Five voice messages, seventeen texts, and ten minutes of waving at random CCTV cameras later, John found himself sitting in one of the nicest homes in which he’d ever been. Considering some of the places people had had the misfortune of dying, he supposed that was saying something.

He tried not to fidget in the plush black chair in which he’d been seated by a still annoyed Anthea when he’d arrived. He’d wondered at the time if he should perhaps apologize for attempting to break her employer’s nose last time they’d met. The dirty look she’d given him just for saying hello had made him decide against it.

John jumped as a door to his left finally opened after twenty minutes of him waiting. Mycroft didn’t bother to hide his amusement.

“Forgive me. There was an urgent call I couldn’t ignore.”

John had a good feeling he knew who exactly had been on the other end of that call. His heart clenched at the idea of Sherlock calling his big brother in a panic, worried about losing his only friend. He squeezed his fist against his leg and pushed the thought out of his mind. People who blackmailed other people into having sex didn’t need pity, they needed therapy. And jail time.

Mycroft walked to the bar behind John. He had to turn and peer over the tall chair back to keep him in sight. Mycroft pulled a bottle of something out from underneath the sleek black countertop. John was no expert, but he was fairly certain that the only reason that counter alone wasn’t worth more than all of the furniture back at 221B combined was because Mycroft had given Sherlock a bed worth five months’ of John’s wages.

Mycroft poured himself a drink before holding up the bottle to him questioningly.

“Sure,” John answered. Muttering to himself, he turned back to face the front and added, “Maybe if I’m drunk enough you two might actually make sense.”

Mycroft came back around and handed a glass to him before sitting in the chair across from John. He had no choice but to stare directly at the nose he had punched in unjustifiable rage.

“Sorry about your…” John indicated his own nose and took a drink. Scotch. Not his favorite drink, but he was hardly going to be choosy right then.

“Mmm, yes. I’m told you had a change of heart?”

“He…” John paused, wondering how one went about asking someone if their brother had essentially raped them.

Mycroft sighed and took a sip of his own drink. “You really should reconsider your habit of speaking with my brother about personal issues. You know how easily he gets confused.”

“So it’s false?” The hope in his voice was embarrassing.

“That depends. If my brother informed you of the offer he made me twelve years ago in which he promised to stop his horrid habit if I promised to fill his time in exchange – then no, it’s not false. Anything else and you’ll have to be more specific in your questions.” Mycroft gave him a pointed look. “My brother didn’t force me.”

“Really? Cause it sounds like blackmail to me,” John said, trying to keep his voice casual.

Mycroft chuckled. “Not three months ago I was the boogeyman and now I’m one of your abuse victims you treat at the clinic.”

“I didn’t have all the facts then.”

“You still don’t,” Mycroft said, the amusement suddenly gone from his voice. He stared at John in an obvious attempt at intimidation that wasn’t completely useless this time around. John found himself more afraid of the man than he’d been when he was tied up in an abandoned warehouse. Terror gripped him as he imagined what words were about to come out of Mycroft’s mouth in the next few minutes.

“We made a bargain, John. Not one that I imagine you will understand, but one nevertheless made by parties fully aware of what was being agreed upon and finding no fault in the arrangement. I wanted my brother to give up the drugs; he wanted something to occupy his brain in its place. I weighed the pros and cons of the situation and found the former to far outweigh the latter.”

“Just like that? He gets a shiny new life as an ex-addict detective with a brother who’s willing to do literally anything for him and you get-what? A life of monogamy with someone you’d never even consider otherwise?” John gave him a bitter laugh.

Mycroft’s lips thinned. “I don’t normally put things so plainly, so I hope that you appreciate that I am about to now.” Mycroft studied John for a moment, and John couldn’t help but sit a little straighter. “I love Sherlock. I have always loved Sherlock, though not as he would have preferred. I can assure you, you cannot possibly comprehend just how much my life revolves around my brother. If he had died of an overdose, I would have followed him soon after.”

John took a hard swallow of his scotch.

Mycroft continued, “I was already willing to give my brother everything else he desired in a partner. It was but one final step to complete the picture, and providing Sherlock someone trustworthy with which he could fulfill his sexual needs was not the arduous task you believe it to be.”

“It really doesn’t bother you,” John said. A statement, not a question.

Staring into Mycroft’s eyes, he couldn’t see even a hint of disgust. Granted, the man had had twelve years to perfect his mask, but John had the feeling he wouldn’t lie to him. Not while they were having their strange heart-to-heart.

“My brother so completely disregards the social mores of society; you must think me a pillar of human tradition in comparison.” Mycroft leaned forward to whisper, “I am not.”

Mycroft stood before John fully had time to process that, smoothing out his suit jacket.

He moved to follow, only to have the other wave him off.

“You may stay if you like. Carl will drive you home when you’re ready. Or,” Mycroft gave him a knowing look, “anywhere else you might like to go.”

John nodded. By now Sherlock was probably frantic with worry, though the bastard would never admit it. He watched Mycroft cross the room and hoped he was going to go call his brother and tell him everything was … well, not all right exactly, John didn’t think he’d ever see the situation as _right,_ but at least … fine.

It was all fine.

A thought came to him just as Mycroft was about to open the door.

“Mycroft,” the man turned to glance back at him, “If you were willing to sleep with Sherlock anyway,” John couldn’t believe he was even asking this, “why did you wait so long? You said you knew about Sherlock’s interest beforehand?”

The smile Mycroft gave him was enough to remind John that this man single-handedly controlled several of the most important agencies in one of the most powerful nations in the world.

“A man doesn’t get to be in my position by giving away his most useful bargaining chip for free.”

With those terrifying parting words, he left John to his thoughts. Which pretty much consisted of him needing to be much more drunk. He walked over to the bar and took hold of Mycroft’s posh scotch still sitting on the counter before taking it back to his chair with him. The bottle ought to be a good place to start.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

“You spoke to John,” Sherlock said. It was a statement and a question both.

“Of course. I could hardly have him going around thinking you’d forced me into this little pairing of ours,” Mycroft answered, his gaze focused on the mobile in his hand. Decidedly one of the benefits of having dinner with each other – neither had to go through the effort of pretending to be even remotely polite.

“But I did force you.” Sherlock took a sip of his water. Wine was usually their preferred choice, but they’d both decided it would be best to be sober for the conversation.

“Yes.” Mycroft set his phone to the side of his plate and took up his fork. Sherlock chose not to comment on the rather decadent slice of cake his brother was eating out of gratitude for the favor he’d done him.

Sherlock looked at his hands resting in his lap. “Thank you.”

“It is my job, isn’t it?” Mycroft threw back the words Sherlock had spoken to him all those years ago.

“You could have broken off our arrangement any time in the past several years. I was hardly going to go back to the life of a junkie when I knew Lestrade would cease giving me cases.”

“You will always live the life of a junkie seeking his next hit. It’s only ever a question of which drug has your current attention.” Mycroft took another bite of his cake.

Sherlock chose not to disagree. His brother was in a uniquely good mood, and he wasn’t about to start up a fight about his addictions when there existed the distinct possibility he was going to get to penetrate Mycroft later that night.

His own fork came down as he cut into a fish so tender it flaked away. At least Mycroft could be trusted to have good taste in food.

“I could always tell Dr. Watson about the true nature of our relationship,” Mycroft said out of the blue.

Sherlock nodded, having expected it. “I know.”

Caring was not an advantage.

They looked at each other, each understanding one another perfectly.

“I want your mouth tonight,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock nodded. He’d have given that to Mycroft anyway.

“And tomorrow you’re going to wear the lead and collar.”

Sherlock sighed but nodded his agreement.

“May I fuck you?” Sherlock asked.

“After I’ve finished my cake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what'd you guys think of the story overall? Too many ups & downs? Just right? Anybody interested in a sequel that shows the set-up of the relationship?


End file.
